Читать книгу The Baby Of Their Dreams - Carol Marinelli, Carol Marinelli - Страница 10

CAT WOKE BEFORE her breakfast was delivered and lay there.

She remembered a day seven years ago and wished, how she wished, that there was a seven-year-old waiting to open his birthday presents and to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to.

It was a hard picture to paint and each year it got harder.

Was Mike in this happy family picture and did Thomas have brothers and sisters now?

No, she didn’t miss Mike and the perfect world they had been building. She missed, on Thomas’s behalf, all that he had been denied.

She couldn’t afford to cry, especially given the fact she had no make-up with her and so she headed to the bathroom to set to work with the little she had.

With her heavy-duty hair straighteners neatly packed in her lost luggage, she was very grateful for the hair serum she had bought and applied an awful lot in an attempt to tame her long, wild curly hair.

When her breakfast was delivered she walked out onto the balcony and tried to calm herself with the spectacular view of the Mediterranean. It was just after seven but already the air was warm. The coffee was hot and strong and Cat tried to focus on her speech. It will be fine, she told herself, refusing to fall apart because she didn’t have the perfect, perfect pale grey suit and the pale ballet pumps in the softest buttery leather to wear.

They were here to hear her words, Cat reminded herself.

Yet she couldn’t quite convince herself that it didn’t matter what she wore or how she looked.

Neutral.

That was how she always tried to appear.

There was nothing neutral about her today, she thought as she slipped on Gemma’s dress.

Her rather ample bust was accentuated by the lace, the halter-neck showed far too much of her brown back—the tan was from painting the window frames on her last lot of days off, rather than lying on the beach. Her hair she tied back with the little white band that came with the shower cap in the bathroom and then she covered it with a thick strand of black hair.

A squirt of duty-free perfume, a slick of lip gloss and she would simply have to do.

Yet, she thought, having tied up her espadrilles, as she stood and looked in the mirror, while never in a million years would she have chosen this outfit for anything related to work, she liked how it looked. She wouldn’t even have chosen it for anything out of work either. Generally she was in shorts or jeans when sorting out the renovations. Yes, she liked how she looked today. It reminded her of how she had looked before she’d had…

Cat halted herself right there.

She simply could not afford the luxury of breaking down.

Tonight, Cat told herself. Tonight she would order room service and a bottle of wine and reminisce.

Today she had to get on.

She had one last flick through her notes and then she headed out to register for the conference and also to check that everything was in place for her talk.

She was just putting her swipe card in her bag when the elevator doors opened and she looked up to an empty lift, bar one occupant.

Bar One was tall and unshaven with grey eyes and his dark hair was a touch too long yet he looked effortlessly smart in dark pants and a white shirt. All this she noted as she stood there and briefly wondered if she should simply let this lift go.

For some bizarre reason that seemed far easier than stepping in.

‘Buenos días,’ Bar One said, and then frowned at her indecision as to whether or not to enter.

‘Buenos días,’ Cat replied, gave him a brisk smile and stepped in. The floor number for the function rooms had already been pressed and as she glanced to the side and down, anywhere other than his eyes, she noted he too was an owner of the softest buttery leather shoes.

His luggage clearly hadn’t been lost.

And neither was he wearing socks.

Three, Cat thought as his cologne met her nostrils and she found herself doing a very quick audit as to the number of garments that would remain on his lovely body once he’d kicked off those shoes.

Talk about thinking like a man!

She blamed Gemma, of course. It was her fault for putting such ideas in her head, Cat decided as the lift opened at the next floor and unfortunately no one got in.

He said something else in Spanish and Cat shook her head. ‘Actually, buenos días is as far as my Spanish goes.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I thought you were a local.’

His accent was English and he had just delivered a compliment indeed, because the locals, Cat had worked out during her prolonged time at the airport last night, were a pretty stunning lot.

‘Nope.’ She shook her head.

The lift doors opened and he wished her a good day as he went to step out.

‘And you,’ she offered.

‘Sadly not,’ he replied, and nodded to the gathering crowd outside the elevators. ‘I’m working.’

‘So am I,’ she said, and he stood there a little taken aback as he let her out first.

Oh!

Dominic had thought she was on her way to some… Well, he’d had no idea really where she might have been on her way to but talk about a sight for sore eyes.

She had a very, very nice back, he decided as he followed her over to the registration desk, where there was a small line-up.

A very tense back, he noted as she reached into her bag and pulled out her phone.

‘I’m Dominic…’

Cat had just had a text from the airline to say her luggage had been found. At Gatwick! It should be with her later this afternoon and could she confirm that she was still at the same hotel. She barely turned around as she fired back a text and told him her name. ‘Cat.’

‘Short for?’

She really didn’t have time for small talk and she knew, just knew, because her back was scalding from his eyes, that it was more than small talk he was offering. ‘I’m actually a bit busy at the moment…’

‘Well, that’s some name—no wonder you have to shorten it.’

Her fingers hesitated over the text she was typing and she gave a small, presumably unseen smile.

Dominic, even if he couldn’t see her mouth, knew from behind that she’d smiled.

He watched as that rigid spinal column very briefly relaxed a notch and those tense shoulders dropped a fraction.

Still, he left things there. He certainly wasn’t going to pursue a conversation that had been so swiftly shut down.

Instead, he looked at the brochure with only mild interest. He loathed this type of thing. He’d only put his hand up because he’d needed the update hours and because his parents and sister lived nearby—it would be a good chance to catch up. As well as that, he was seriously considering moving here.

He kept himself up to date and found these presentations pointless, or rather bullet-pointed—most speakers had everything on slides and it was rather like being read a bedtime story out loud. At thirty-two years of age, he would rather read for himself.

‘Dominic!’

He glanced over at the sound of his name and gave a smile when he saw that it was someone he had studied with in London.

‘How are you, Hugh?’

Cat stood there, trying not to notice the delicious depth to his voice. Not that he spoke much; it was his friend who did most of the talking.

She registered and was told that one of the organisers would be with her shortly to take her to where her talk was being held.

‘This way, Dr Hayes…’

Dominic stopped in mid-sentence as Cat was led away. She must be speaking, he realised, and, quite shamelessly, he glanced through the list of speakers and found out her name for himself.

Catriona Hayes.

And then he saw the topic of her talk.

Palliative Care and its Place in the Emergency Department.

Absolutely not what he needed.

So, instead of hearing her speak, he took himself off to listen to a disaster management panel but his mind wasn’t really there. Half an hour later he slipped out unnoticed and slipped into where she was talking.

She noticed him come in.

There was a tiny pause in her talk as she glanced at the opening door and saw him enter.

He didn’t take a seat but leant against the back wall with arms folded. There was a small falter in her flawless talk as he took his place but then she continued where she’d left off.

‘Of course, it’s great for the patient when they receive a terminal diagnosis to take that break, that trek, that overseas trip. It can just be a touch inconvenient for us when they present, minus notes, diagnosis, information and family. And so, because that’s what we do, we leap in and do our best to save them.’ She looked out at the room. ‘Of course, it’s not so great for the patient either when they come around to our smiling faces… It’s hard on the staff when a four-year-old presents on Christmas Eve. It’s our instinct to do all that we can. There isn’t always time to speak at length with the family when they come rushing in with their child but listen we must…’

It wasn’t like a bedtime story with everything spelt out. Yes, there were bullet points, but they were only brief outlines and, for Dominic, a lot of her words felt like bullets as she filled in the gaps.

Brusque was her delivery as she covered things such as legalities, next of kin, patient rights. For good measure, staff, relative and patient guilt was thrown in too.

He listened, he felt, yet his face never moved a muscle.

As she finished, he left the room and went off to lunch but, even if it smelt fantastic, food didn’t appeal and instead he took some water and went out onto a large balcony.

Unlike others who had been at her talk Dominic didn’t go up and congratulate her. Neither did he tell her that her talk had touched a nerve.

He could have walked over and said how his wife had got up in the night and wandered off. He could have said how angry she had been to wake up two days later in ICU and that he could still see the reproach in her eyes, as if Dominic had somehow failed her because she’d lived.

No, he didn’t need or want that look from Cat and he was tired, so tired of women who gave out sympathy and understanding.

He’d prefer something lighter.

Or darker, perhaps! Hopefully, Dominic thought, heading back in, so too would she.